Chapter 8 Luan
LUAN
The doctor's words loop through my head like a recording I can't shut off.
You're progressing well, Mr. Krasniqi. Faster than we initially expected. But full recovery will still take time. Several more weeks. Patience is essential.
Weeks.
My own body has betrayed me. Locked me inside darkness while the world moves on without me. While threats pile up and rivals circle and I sit here useless, waiting for cells to regenerate and nerves to repair and vision to return.
All I can see are shadows. Blurred shapes moving through gradations of light and dark. No definition. No detail. No faces. I can't read expressions or body language or the thousand small visual cues that tell you when someone's lying or planning something or about to make a move.
I'm blind. Not completely. But enough that I'm functionally helpless.
I need to move. Need to do something. Anything to burn off the restless energy crawling under my skin.
I start pacing. The living room is familiar territory. I've walked this space thousands of times. I know every measurement. Every piece of furniture. Every corner.
But knowing and seeing are different things.
My shin connects with the coffee table. Hard. Sharp pain radiates up my leg.
I stumble forward. Off balance. Reaching for something to catch myself. My hand finds the back of the sofa but my momentum is already wrong. Furniture scrapes across the floor.
"Fuck!"
The word rips out of me, raw and vicious.
I'm a child stumbling through the dark. Helpless. Pathetic. Unable to navigate my own goddamn living room without hurting myself.
"Easy." Artan's voice comes from my left. Close. He must have been sitting there the whole time. Watching me fumble around like an invalid. "The doctor said it's good news overall. You're healing faster than expected. You'll recover fully. It just takes time."
He's trying to comfort me. Like he's done a thousand times before. Steady. Reliable. The only constant in my life.
"Time I don't have," I snap.
The words come out harsher than I intended. But I can't pull them back.
Artan doesn't deserve that. He's been here every day. For years. The only person I can trust without question. The only person who's never left.
There used to be someone else. Mira. My sister.
She was the only one who ever loved me. Not for what I could become or what I could do or what I represented. Just for being myself.
My mother died when I was twelve. But she'd been gone long before that. Mentally unstable. Lost in her own spiral of breakdowns. Barely present even when she was physically in the room.
And from my father, all I had was violence. Cruelty. Fists and belts and words designed to cut deep and leave scars that never fully healed. Making absolutely certain I understood I was never good enough. Would never be good enough.
But Mira loved me anyway. Saw me weak and scared and struggling and loved me regardless.
Until she left.
And then I found out the truth. That she didn't just leave to escape the mafia. To start a new life somewhere clean and safe. That wasn't the whole story. There was more. Things I wasn't told. Things that make rage burn hot and acidic in my chest whenever I let myself think about it.
But I can't think about that now. Can't let that old fury surface on top of everything else boiling inside me.
"Oh good, you're back."
Lily's voice, bright and warm, comes from the doorway. Like sunshine cutting through clouds.
My thoughts shift immediately.
Lily.
She's been here for a few days. And the apartment feels different. Lighter somehow. I can breathe easier. Like pressure I didn't know I was carrying lifted slightly.
I notice her care in small ways. The way she warns me before I might trip over something.
The way she tells me what she's cooking, describes the plate before she sets it down.
The way she moves through the space quietly but not silently.
Always making just enough noise that I know where she is without her having to announce herself.
Thoughtful. Considerate. Without making it obvious that she's accommodating my limitations.
But then I remember. Erion, after our meeting, saying he was going to "find something sweet" and heading toward the kitchen. I couldn't see what happened. Couldn't watch their interaction. But I heard her laugh.
That sound hit me like a fist to the gut. Jealousy. Sharp and immediate and irrational.
And Artan. I can hear how he reacts to her. My stoic, solitary friend who's been alone as long as I've known him. He has his own apartment across the city but he's been here constantly. Every day. And I know I'm not the only reason why.
I can't see Lily. Can't look at her face or watch her move or read her expressions.
But I'm attracted to her anyway. To her voice. To her presence. To the way she fills space without demanding attention.
And that attraction just adds another layer to the frustration already boiling under my skin.
"I wish I could stay for lunch," Artan says to her. There's something in his voice when he talks to Lily. Something warm and soft. Affectionate in a way Artan never is with anyone.
"That's too bad," Lily says, genuinely disappointed.
The easy familiarity between them grates against my nerves like sandpaper.
"I'll be back later," Artan continues. Still talking to her. Not to me.
Lily's footsteps fade toward the kitchen.
"I'm meeting Erion," Artan says. Finally addressing me. "We're scouting Irish locations. Figuring out where to send our message. Make it clear they need to back off."
"Fine." I don't turn toward his voice. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing me orient on sound like a dog.
"I'll catch up with you later."
Footsteps. The door opening. Closing.
He's gone.
I'm alone with my thoughts. With the shadows pressing in from all sides. With anger simmering just below the surface.
Time passes. I don't know how long. Could be minutes. Could be an hour. Time feels different when you can't see. Stretches and compresses in unpredictable ways.
"Lunch is ready," Lily says. Appearing suddenly in the doorway. "Whenever you're ready. It's in the dining room."
She's hovering. I can feel it. Staying close. Watching me. Tracking my movements. Ready to jump in if I stumble or misjudge a distance or need help.
Like I'm fragile. Like I'm an invalid who can't walk ten feet without supervision.
I make my way to the dining room. Slowly. Carefully. Hating every second of it.
My hip bumps the doorframe. I catch myself. Adjust.
Navigate around where I think the chair is. Misjudge slightly. My thigh hits the seat. I grab the back. Lower myself down.
Finally sitting.
"I made you a smash burger,"Her voice gentle and soft. Careful in a way that makes my skin crawl. "Caramelized onions, aged cheddar, garlic aioli. And chips on the side. It should be easy and fun to eat with your hands."
Everything stops.
It should be easy and fun to eat with your hands.
The words land like a slap. Like pity wrapped in kindness.
Easy. Because I can't manage utensils. Because I need finger food like a toddler.
Something inside me fractures. Breaks. All the rage and frustration and humiliation I've been swallowing for weeks erupts.
Red. Instant. Unstoppable.
I don't think.
I just react.
My hand finds the plate. Grabs it. Hurls it across the room with all the force I can manage.
The crash is spectacular. Ceramic shattering. Chips scattering across the floor.
"I don't need you treating me like I'm fucking broken!" The words tear out of me. Too loud. Too raw. "I'm not some goddamn invalid who needs special meals designed for the disabled! I'm not a child who can't feed himself!"
Silence.
Absolute. Suffocating.
Then I hear her breathe. One deep inhale. Slow. Deliberate. Like she's physically restraining herself from something.
When she speaks, her voice shakes. But not with fear. With fury. Barely contained.
"I'm not cleaning that up."
"What?"
"You heard me." Her voice is harder now. Nothing soft or gentle left in it. "I am done. Done being treated this way when I have done nothing except try to help you. Try to make your life easier while you sit here and wallow in self-pity and take it out on everyone around you."
"Lily—"
"No." The word cuts like a blade. "You can starve for all I care. I'm not making you another lunch. I'm not making you anything. You can figure it out yourself since you're so capable."
Footsteps. Fast. Moving away from me.
I hear her breath hitch. Just once. Like she's fighting tears.
Then the front door opens.
Closes.
The sound echoes through the apartment.
She's gone.
Silence settles over everything. Heavy. Oppressive. The kind of silence that used to be normal before Lily arrived and filled the space with warmth and cooking smells and soft humming.
I'm alone again.
But this time it's different. This time the emptiness feels bigger. Sharper. More acute.
And it's not just because I can't see.
It's because I can feel her absence. The specific shape of the space where she should be. The void left behind.
My own fault. I did this.
And the darkness feels deeper than it did before.